


Old Life Day Festival

by Heiwako



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drama, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:10:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiwako/pseuds/Heiwako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Copyright Bethesda<br/>Comments appreciated</p><p>This is an entry for the <a href="http://elderscrolls-skyrim.deviantart.com/"></a><img class="avatar"/> Holiday Contest. Obviously I chose to focus on Old Life Festival with some poetic license for local custom in Falkreath. This was additionally inspired by a prompt on SKM that asked for days of celebration in the holds and mentioned the possibility of a Day of the Dead in Falkreath. I thought that fit perfectly with the dead theme of the hold and ran with it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Old Life Day Festival

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright Bethesda  
> Comments appreciated
> 
> This is an entry for the [](http://elderscrolls-skyrim.deviantart.com/) Holiday Contest. Obviously I chose to focus on Old Life Festival with some poetic license for local custom in Falkreath. This was additionally inspired by a prompt on SKM that asked for days of celebration in the holds and mentioned the possibility of a Day of the Dead in Falkreath. I thought that fit perfectly with the dead theme of the hold and ran with it.

**Middas Evening Star 31st 204 4E 11:00 PM**

There was nothing like being lonely in a room full of people.

I looked around Dead Man's Drink, the local tavern and inn for Falkreath, and took in the various groups drinking quietly. There was some conversation among the locals and even a bit of singing, but it was eerily somber for a holiday known for its drinking and overall good cheer.

Or maybe I was thinking about tomorrow's New Life Festival when gifts were given to loved ones and promises for a better year were made to be broken in the next two weeks.

Tonight, Old Life Festival, was a day for reflection. A day to think about the past...and according to some, a chance to resurrect the recent dead. That was why I was here instead of home in Dawnstar. I wanted to see if I could talk to the dead. It wasn't as if I hadn't done it before.

I tried to sip my mead, noting with dull surprise that the tankard was empty. I started to stand to get another drink when an older Imperial woman sat at my table with two drinks in hand. She slid one across to me while she took a healthy drink from her own.

"Name is Valga Vinicia," she said cheerily. I remembered her as the owner and bartender from when I lived in Falkreath Hold before. She was a handsome woman with brown hair to her shoulders. She was wearing a comfortable dress that had sleeves that could be easily rolled up for when the bar was busy. She nodded to the glass in front of me. "Have a drink on me."

"I thought the Emperor was paying," I joked as I took a sip. It was a better brew than the simple ale given freely on New Life Day.

"That's tomorrow," Valga replied with a chuckle. "Tonight everyone pays."

"Except me?" I quirked, lifting my drink for emphasis.

Valga laughed, a hearty, carefree sound that felt out of place with the rest of the crowd. A few people looked our way, but shrugged when they saw it was her and went back to their own hushed conversations.

"Well, I'm not used to seeing someone sitting by themselves on Old Life," she said as she waved her hand in the direction of the rest of the inn. Every other table was full of people sitting close together. Even the chairs had been pulled together into small knots. I had been the only person sitting alone. "Made me want to know your story. I'm horribly nosey. In Falkreath, if I don't know it, it's not worth knowing."

"What makes you think I have a story?" I hedged.

"A stranger in Falkreath on Old Life's Night?" Valga responded. "You could only be here for the Honoring the Ancestors ritual. Our little town isn't famous for just its cemeteries, you know. Besides, you don't see many Imperials outside of the guard or army since the Civil War got started."

Whiterun had fallen to the Stormcloaks two years ago, making quite the rout for Ulfric's cause. Winning a winter campaign as the aggressor had impressed many people. Taking Falkreath during the following summer had been child's play in comparison.

Non-Nords weren't forced to leave their homes in either Hold, but they had definitely not been made to feel welcome either. There had been word of deposed jarls and their courts retreating to Solitude for sanctuary. I worried sometimes for Adrianne Avenicci, the blacksmith who ran Warmaiden's in Whiterun. Not only was she an Imperial, but her father had been Jarl Balgruuf's steward, making her potentially valuable to the Stormcloaks as a hostage. Her forge was located next to the city gates, a normally vied-for location, but it had to have been dangerous during the fighting. I could only hope that her husband, Ulfberth War-Bear, had been enough of a deterrent to any looting during the chaos. At least they had a store full of weapons to fight off any would-be attackers.

When I hesitated answering, Valga continued, "Don't worry. The ritual is for anyone who wishes to participate. We make no secret of it and anyone is welcome. I had my time with my ghosts when I first came here." She sighed as she looked into her cup. "I escaped fighting in Cyrodiil, only to have it track me down again in Skyrim. The war doesn't care about borders at all and everyone has lost someone." The innkeeper patted my hand before standing. "If you need to say goodbye to someone, this was the place and time to come do it."

"What if she's been dead a long time?" I asked fearfully. I had been worrying that this was a pointless trip because of that fact. The rumors had always been the recent dead, but what counted as recent? The last year? Five years? Ten? A lifetime? Do we ever get over our dead, even long after we've forgotten what they look like?

Valga gathered up our empty tankards, a sad smile on her face. "The veil between the living and dead is always thinnest tonight, dear. If your loved one wants to talk to you, she'll come if she has to battle Oblivion itself." Then with a swirl of her skirts, she was gone to attend the bar.

I couldn't take the heat of the room any more. Despite the nearest person being ten feet away, I felt stifled. I pulled on my bow and cloak and went out into the cold winter night. The air hit me hard in the face and I welcomed the shock. Loose hairs danced around my face, and the sweat dried quickly.

I made my way down to the infamous Falkreath Cemetery, leaving the light and heat of the inn behind. I had to admit that I was relieved to be swallowed by the dark and silence again. I had always felt more comfortable with them as my companions, despite what my usual charismatic demeanor might have implied otherwise. My feet trusted the crunch of the gravel road while my eyes adjusted to the moons' light as I walked.

To my dismay, there were already a group of about twenty people gathered in the cemetery. The elder Altmer priest, Runil, was leading them in a prayer to Arkay asking for his blessing at the end of the year and his permission to speak to the dead. The congregation held aloft lit candles as they beseeched the Aedra of the dead.

I saw among them a couple I remembered from earlier this year. I had been passing through Falkreath and heard about a terrible murder of a young girl who had been torn apart by some monster. The Companions had already dealt with the matter by the time I heard about it, but nothing stopped me from remembering the dead-eyed look of the father when I met him at the general store.

No parent should ever have to bury their child.

I couldn't remember their names no matter how hard I tried, but I automatically noted that she was an Imperial and he was a Nord. Hard times had to have been made harder with the Civil War on their front step. No doubt Stormcloaks had sent representatives to gather a portion of the farmers' goods for their own war effort. Everyone must do their part to contribute and all that happy war propaganda.

They were standing together, but they looked miles apart. Runil handed each of them a candle and lit it for them. They sang their prayers, their voices breaking on every other note. They wandered off to the side where I could only guess their daughter's grave was. My heart ached when I saw them take each other's hands, their grips tight enough to make their knuckles white in the candlelight.

I turned away, their moment too private and painfully raw to be observed by an outsider. I wandered down to the southeast part of the cemetery, the part that was closest to the burnt out Falkreath Sanctuary. The graves here were covered in Nightshade, a comforting sight.

I wished I knew the proper rituals, but it felt hypocritical to ask Arkay's priests for help given who my own matron deity was. I sat on the cold ground with my ankles crossed as I watched the starry night sky. I waited with my breath hanging in the air, and I listened to the sounds of the cemetery. I felt at peace amongst the gravestones.

I didn't know why I felt I had to do this tonight. An impulse was the only answer I could give myself, and even that felt empty. True, Old Life's Day was supposed to be the one night this could happen and this was the only place I had ever heard that had this ritual, but she had died fifteen years ago. Shouldn't I have been done mourning by now?

Distantly I could hear the bells tolling the midnight hour. The singing in the main part of the cemetery near the temple rose to a crescendo before dying away. I sighed as nothing happened. This had been a waste of time.

When I started to stand and try to work the kinks out of my sleeping feet, I heard her voice behind me.

"Rosa Faust?" my mother said. I hadn't heard her in literal lifetimes and still my heart stopped when I heard her again. "My little rose?"

A tear slid down my cheek unexpectedly. I had thought I was prepared for this, but I supposed in the end I was not. I closed my mouth with a hard click of my teeth so I didn't look like a fool as I turned to face the specter of my mother.

She looked better in death with her ethereal glow than how I last remembered her in life. She had been wasting away from disease, one that should have been easily prevented or even treated if she had simply done what the healers had told her to do. Instead she had ran from the fear of the disease, trying to ignore it as it ate her alive.

I had been seventeen and had not able to deal with her constant medical needs or her begging for me to marry and bear a grandchild before she died. I had left one night and traveled to the capital where I enrolled in the army under a false name. I wanted to live my own life, not hers. She hadn't even tried to make me live the life she could have had. Instead she had wanted me to make the same choices she had lamented since I was born.

"Momma!" I wept as I threw my arms open and ran to her. I was five again and we were happy together instead of the later years when I avoided her during the worst times of her bitterness and skooma addiction.

I was afraid she would be incorporeal and I would pass through her, but thankfully she was as solid as I remembered and I hugged her as hard as I could as if to prove she was real. At least real enough for now.

"Why are you crying, dear heart?" she asked as she smoothing my hair from my forehead. Her arms around me made me feel safe and loved. I had missed that so much and I hadn't even realized it until she was there again.

"I left you," I sobbed. It was hard to get the words out between my wails, I was crying so hard, but it was important to say it. I had been waiting fifteen years to say it. "I left you to die and I didn't even come home for the funeral although I should have, but I just couldn't because I didn't want to face you. You were dead and I should have been there for you instead of fleeing to the army."

Momma didn't answer. Instead she continued to make comforting noises as she held me until I calmed down. "I"m sorry," I cried over and over. "I'm so sorry."

"You were there for me more times than I could count," Momma told me gently. "You held my hair from my face when I was sick, you cleaned up after my messes, you fed me." She tilted my face so I was looking at her. "I should have done those things for you. I was your mother and I should have acted like it. Instead I called you horrible names and accused you of not caring when all you had ever done was love me."

She wiped the tears from my cheeks, leaving a cool trail from her touch. "There was something broken in me and I never did anything to fix it. I was never the mother I should have been for you because I was afraid. I was afraid of losing you. In the end, I did all the things I could to push you away so I wouldn't feel hurt when you did leave."

Silence enveloped us as I took in her words. I had come here tonight to apologize for failing her. I had never imagined she would want to say the same thing to me.

"Did I ever tell you how I picked your name?" Momma asked as she kissed my hair. I shook my head. "I had just discovered I was pregnant and I didn't know what to do. Your father and I were not wed. He wasn't even a local man. Just someone I met and liked and had a wonderful night together."

It seemed we had been more alike than I had cared to admit. Gods knew I had had my own share of whirlwind romances over the years.

"I was scared. There were herbs I could have taken to terminate the pregnancy, but I had always thought that children were a blessing," she said as she led me to sit by a tree. I curled up in her arms, feeling safe and loved. "I went to the Lucky Old Lady statue and prayed. 'Show me a sign,' I begged her. As I stood to leave, I saw a rose struggling to grow at the base of the statue. I cleared the debris around it and decided that the Lady had deigned to give me a sign. And I named you after it."

"I always thought my name was boring," I admitted with a grimace. "It just seemed so ordinary."

"Is that why you changed it when you left?" Momma asked playfully.

"Partly," I sighed. "And as a sort of symbolic gesture, you know? Leave behind an old name, leave behind an old life."

"How did that work for you?"

"Not so well," I said as I leaned against Momma. "Every few years I would move on, pick a new name, try a new profession. Nothing seemed to stick."

"Until you came here," she said.

"Until I came here," I agreed. "Even then, not at first. I had to change my name one last time before I settled down."

"And why was that?" she nudged.

"Because I found someone worth staying for," I said shyly. It felt weird saying it outloud.

"Tell me about him."

"His name is Cicero," I said, not sure what to say. "He's...he's a jester...and an assassin. He's the Keeper for the Night Mother."

If I had been expecting judgment from the dead, I was surprised by Momma's response. "He makes you happy?" When I nodded, she asked, "Would you change anything about him?"

"No," I chuckled. "Even if he drives me half crazy some days."

"Then be happy, little rose," she said. "Go home to your family and be happy. I'm okay now." Tears well up in my eyes at those words. That was what I had needed to hear. "I'm okay now, so go home and be happy." She kissed me one last time before vanishing. "I love you."

"I love you," I whispered to the wind. I waited under the tree for a few more minutes to both bask in the memory and to let my tears run their course. Then I called for Shadowmere and mounted up.

It was time to let go of the past and look forward to the future.

It was time.


End file.
